


Marwnat

by ignipes



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-22
Updated: 2009-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-03 01:51:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignipes/pseuds/ignipes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is one story they do not tell in Uther's court.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marwnat

Minstrels and travelers carry the tales into Camelot.

An old man, they say, with a beard that reaches to his knees. A touch of his hand will chase away a child's fever, a woman's barrenness, a man's broken bone. He accepts no payment for his services, he takes only food, he sleeps in the stables. He's always gone by morning.

No, no, they say, he's a fierce warrior, tall as a tree and strong as an ox. Where he walks crops fail, wells dry up, children wither in their mothers' wombs. He steals gold and jewels where he can find them, weapons and livestock where he cannot. He steals young girls and young boys and bones long buried beneath the earth.

There is no man, they say, but there is a woman, a hag, a witch. Her eyes are golden and her fingers end in claws. In every village she stops, she demands the most beautiful maiden, pure and unspoiled. She takes the girl into the wood alone, and through the night the villagers cower in their hovels and listen to the distant, echoing screams.

These tales, they say, are foolish stories for the easily frightened. It is not the old man or the terrible warrior or the wicked crone we must fear. It is the child. A boy, maybe a girl, innocent of face and weak of stature, begging a chunk of bread or a rotten apple from those who will not turn him away. For their kindness, they go to sleep peasants but wake as wealthy as kings.

The rumors become stories, the stories become songs. It is easy to embellish when darkness falls early and snow covers the castle.

"We thank you for your songs, bard," says King Uther, his voice ringing through the hall. He raises his goblet and the court and its guests do the same. "To long winter nights and even longer tales." There is polite laughter; the bard grins wryly and nods. "And to peace and plenty for all of Camelot."

By his side, Arthur drinks from his cup and ignores the servant who refills it. The boy's name is Angus. He bows when it is suitable to do so, calls every man and woman of the court by their proper title with the appropriate deference, slips about the castle silently as a wraith and has most of his duties completed without fault before Arthur thinks to command him. His behavior has been impeccable since his first day working at the castle.

Arthur hates him. He chooses to pretend the boy doesn't exist.

"Did you enjoy the songs, your majesty?"

At the sound of Morgana's voice, Arthur leans forward to look past his father and King Urien to where she is seated. They are the first words Morgana has spoken all evening.

"I did," says Uther. He speaks to Urien, not to Morgana. "We are honored to have so talented a minstrel with us to pass the winter nights."

"Agreed," says Urien jovially, red-faced and smiling. His hand is so large it engulfs the goblet when he raises it to drink. Not everybody in the hall is paying attention, but those that are raise their glasses as well. "To the kindness and hospitality of Camelot, may it be enjoyed by the people of my kingdom - our kingdom," he smiles at Morgana, "for years to come."

Morgana raises her glass to her lips but she does not drink. She meets Arthur's eyes as the two kings between them begin to speak of other matters. Morgana is as pale as the snow this winter, as brittle as the ice, and Arthur can't remember when he last saw her smile. She isn't smiling now, but her eyes are cunning. Even without words Arthur knows what she is saying: there is a story the minstrel has not told, but that does not mean he doesn't know it.

Arthur sits back in his chair and drains his goblet.

The serving boy refills it promptly without spilling a drop.

-

There is one story they do not tell in Uther's court. Elsewhere they share it eagerly, but within the walls of Camelot they never speak a word. It has been three years, but the king's memory is long and a neck saved from the executioner's block is worth more than the price of a song.

There are many variations of the tale, but there are only three people alive who know the truth: one who dreamed it, one who caused it, and himself, the Prince of Camelot, the one who carries it.

That accounts for the living. What the dead know, Arthur hasn't yet had a chance to ask.

He still sees them sometimes, the ghosts of the fen. They stand in silent gray rows when he rides near a lonely lake or marsh. Some of them look familiar, and Arthur wonders if they have followed him all this way from their homeland, their spirits ranging so far from their bodies, simply to haunt him.

He wonders if that is Merlin's doing as well.

He doesn't count the ghosts. He knows how many there are: one hundred and seventy-seven men. The bodies were charred already, but Arthur and his knights gathered the bones and cast them into the marsh. Every skeleton sunk out of sight, swallowed by the murky water.

"Do you know what it feels like when you've run so hard and so fast you can't draw a single breath, and it's like there's a fire in your chest and blood in your throat, and it's all you can do not to stop at once and just breathe, breathe until it goes away? Do you know?" Merlin's eyes were wide, bright in the glow from the fire. "That's what it's like," Merlin went on, not waiting for an answer. "It feels like that every time I kill somebody with magic."

Arthur flinched and looked away.

"Only this time," said Merlin, "I can't draw a breath. There is no air."

He reached toward the fire and his lips moved as he spoke strange words with no sound.

Nothing happened. Merlin dropped his hand to his lap. The night was cold but there was sweat on his face and staining his clothes. He hadn't stopped shivering since the battle ended. "It's gone," he said. He flexed his fingers and stared as though he had never seen his hand before.

They were beyond the borders of Camelot. The marshes existed in no man's kingdom. That was why Arthur's knights - his father's knights - stood on the other side of the fire in a tight circle, muttering amongst themselves and looking to their prince for guidance.

"You can't go back," said Arthur quietly. A sorcerer who could no longer do magic was a sorcerer still, and the laws did not bend for any man. "I'll order you away if I have to, not that you're much good at listening. But you can't. Camelot isn't safe for you now." He did not say, if I could make it safe, if I could keep you near me, I would, the consequences be damned.

Merlin nodded and swayed unsteadily. Arthur put a hand on his arm to keep him from toppling off the log. "I know," said Merlin. He sounded young and forlorn, lost in his own skin.

They parted ways in the morning.

"Where will you go?" Arthur asked. He wanted to touch Merlin's face, trace the line of his jaw, brush his fingertips over his lips. He kept his hand by his side.

Merlin looked at Arthur and smiled crookedly. "Don't worry about me. I'll be fine." He did not say, I'll be safer if you don't know, but Arthur heard the gentle chiding anyway.

Arthur and his knights rode to the west, toward the white castle with the red and gold flags on its ramparts, toward the king who was waiting for news of victory and subjects who cheered as they passed.

Where Merlin went, Arthur did not know.

-

Morgana is married in the spring. She leaves Camelot, and Gwen does not go with her.

"I told her I would," says Gwen. It is evening and she is filling buckets at the well. When the second one is full she takes both of them before Arthur can, and her lips twitch in a tiny smile at his frustrated sigh. "But she said I should stay here because Camelot is my home."

"Camelot _is_ your home," says Arthur. "We've always known Morgana would leave when she married."

"I don't think Morgana knew that," says Gwen quietly.

They walk through the town together. Gwen still lives in her father's house. According to the law another blacksmith, once Tom's most trusted apprentice, owns the house and forge now, but he and everybody else know the home belongs to Gwen. She won't let Arthur carry water for her, but he walks her home when he can. He never goes inside; he never lingers. He can do as he pleases but Gwen cannot, and he will not put her in an awkward position of having to defend her reputation.

When they reach her door, Gwen sets the buckets down to pull the leather latch. "Good evening, sire," she says. She calls him Arthur when there is nobody else around, but never on a public street, never in the presence of watchful eyes and curious ears.

"Good evening, Guinevere," says Arthur. If they were alone he would bow and kiss her hand to make her laugh, but never when others are near.

Gwen smiles sweetly and goes inside, and Arthur walks back to the castle.

Merlin has been gone for three years, Morgana for a fortnight. Gwen is the only person left now Arthur trusts to tell him when he's acting like a fool.

-

Arthur went back to Ealdor the summer after Merlin left.

He knew Merlin would not be there. Even if Merlin was stupid enough to return to his own village while in exile, Uther had sent men to seek him out there, and they had returned empty-handed. Arthur did not tell his father where he was going. He chose one knight to ride with him, and Cador did not ask their destination until they were well outside the gates of the castle.

"It is a small village of no importance," Arthur said, then added, "except to those who live there, or once did."

"Who lives there?" Cador asked.

Arthur replied, "A friend."

Hunith cried when she saw him. Arthur tried awkwardly to soothe her while Cador smartly excused himself to see to the horses. Arthur sat on a low, uncomfortable stool and looked about while Hunith fussed over food. The house where Merlin was born, where he slept on the floor as a boy, where he grew into a gangly youth with too-sharp bones and too-blue eyes, with magic in his blood and the courage to mock a prince to his face - and there was no sign of him. There was nothing to indicate Hunith had ever had a son. Arthur felt a stab of anger and knew his father's men were to blame for that.

"You needn't worry about Merlin," Hunith said.

Arthur looked at her, alarmed. "You know where he is?"

She smiled sadly. "Oh, no. He would never put me in danger like that."

"Then how do you know he is well?"

Hunith touched her hand to her heart. "I just know."

Arthur wished he had her certainty.

He slept that night on the floor of Hunith's house, side by side with Cador as he had slept beside Merlin the last time.

In the morning Arthur left for Camelot. Before he set out, he said to Hunith, "If you every need anything, any manner of aid for yourself or your village, all you have to do is ask. My father may have refused you before, but -"

"But you are not your father," Hunith finished, smiling, without any indication that she thought it inappropriate to interrupt a prince. Like mother, like son, Arthur thought. "Thank you, sire," said Hunith. "But I will not return to Camelot until my son does."

Arthur did not ask her when she thought that would be, nor how she was so certain it would happen. He thanked her for her hospitality and took his leave with Cador. Arthur set a leisurely pace, and when they stopped to water the horses at midday he told Cador they would rest for a bit. Cador did not ask him why; he sat beside Arthur on a fallen log and unwrapped some of the bread Hunith had given them to eat.

"I spoke to the villagers," said Cador eventually, breaking a long silence. "They have no love of the kingdom of Camelot, but they are quite taken with you."

Arthur stared at the horses grazing lazily by the creek and didn't answer.

"They told me she was never married, and she was very young when she came to the village with a babe in her arms. They say he has no father, and he never -"

"I will not engage in idle gossip," Arthur said sternly.

He started to stand up, but Cador put a hand on his arm to stop him. "Did you know, sire?" Cador asked. "Before the battle at the fens?"

Arthur hesitated, then pulled his arm from Cador's grasp and stood up. "I knew there was something odd about him," he said. It was an acceptable lie for a prince to give. "I didn't know he could slay two hundred men with a single word."

Cador nodded, satisfied.

-

It is the middle of summer and it has not rained for nearly a month. Camelot is in drought, the heat is unbearable, half of Arthur's knights are injured from minor skirmishes and border raids, and the dogs are going mad.

"I have no explanation," says Gaius, standing over the carcass of yet another mangy creature. There is an arrow sticking in its side. "It is quite possible this is a disease for dogs."

He stands up with a groan and stumbles from the effort. Arthur catches him before he falls. Gaius is too old and frail to be kneeling over dead dogs in the hot sun, but no assistant he has taken on in the past three years has lasted. Arthur asked him once if they were all simply too competent and too good at doing what they were told. Gaius had chuckled and shook his head. "It isn't the same," he said, and offered no further explanation.

"Very well," says Arthur. "Find out what you can, but Camelot has more problems to worry about right now than mad dogs."

Gaius gives him a look that reminds Arthur with a twitch of his eyebrow of all the times they have believed Camelot had more to worry about than the life of a grieving witch, a lone unicorn, a scared child.

But two days later Arthur's words are proven true: the king is attacked by bandits while riding to a nearby village. His guards are killed. A weaver carrying bolts of cloth into the city finds him, and Uther returns to his castle unconscious and bleeding on a bed of rough wool. Even before the king is carried into the castle, Arthur commands his knights to scour the villages and roads and forests until they find the men responsible.

"Will he heal?" he asks that night, as soon as Gaius closes the door on Uther's chambers.

Gaius is tired and gray, and in the candlelight his eyes are dark hollows in his face. "I don't know, my dear boy." It has been years since Gaius last called Arthur that, but Arthur finds it does not sting his pride anymore. "Your father is a strong man, but he has seen too many wars and too many battles in his life. His body does not recover from injury as it once did."

Through the windows Arthur can hear dogs howling and barking throughout the city. He wonders how many of them will die tonight: men have taken to slaughtering them before they have a chance to attack women and children.

"Do what you can for him," he says, although he knows Gaius will anyway. "I want to know the moment he wakes."

Arthur rides out with the knights the next day, but they learn nothing. They are bandits, the villagers say, but they cover their faces. They are not men anybody knows. There is nobody missing. The men who attacked the king and his guards have vanished. When Uther wakes two days later, he cannot even tell Arthur how many of them there were. Uther has survived a lifetime of wars and battles and invasions, assassination attempts so frequent he makes jokes of them when allies visit, but he cannot tell Arthur whether there were six bandits or eight, whether they were on horseback or foot, where they came from or where they went.

"Sorcery," says Uther, his voice a weakened rasp. "There is no other explanation."

Arthur nods in agreement, but silently he wonders. There was a time when he believed his father could make no mistakes, but it has been many years since he was so naive.

Uther is unable to leave his bed, and Arthur meets with his advisors in his place. He sits in his father's chair and looks down the long, narrow table at the faces of men he has known his entire life. They bow to him and listen when he speaks, but they watch each other across the table and hesitate before answering his questions.

He wants to tell them, "My father is dying. You're stuck with me now, and so is the rest of Camelot." His stomach churns sourly, and the words are on the tip of his tongue.

Instead he thanks them for their wisdom and does what he thinks is right, not what they advise.

He doesn't like that he can only see half of their faces from where he sits.

The next day, Arthur invites two of his most trusted knights to join the advisors when they meet. The old men glare and shuffle awkwardly, and Arthur ignores their polite, pointed complaints when the meeting is through.

He visits his father that evening and sits by his bed. He tells his father about the business of the day. Outside, the dogs howl still, but there are fewer of them now. All the might of Camelot cannot capture a band of outlaws in the forest, but it can certainly rid the city of filthy, slavering dogs.

"You should never trust them," says Uther suddenly. They are the first words he's spoken since Arthur came in. He sounds old and hoarse, his voice a dry rattle in his chest, but his gaze when he looks at Arthur is as sharp as ever. "They are my advisors, and they remain loyal to me. You must gather your own men around you."

It is fitting, Arthur thinks, that this should be the best advice his father has ever given him. He says, "I already have." He does not say, except for the one I would trust above all others, because he is exiled by your laws.

Uther laughs, but it soon turns into a cough. He covers his mouth, and there is blood on his hand when he moves it away.

-

The king dies on the longest day of the year.

Gaius's hands are hidden in the sleeves of his robes. "I'm sorry, Arthur," he says. "I did all I could."

Arthur clears his throat and doesn't speak until he's certain his voice won't shake. "Please leave us."

Gaius and the bishop leave and close the door Arthur behind them.

Arthur sits in a chair beside his father's bed. Words of prayers he has known since childhood tumble through his head, but he can't bring himself to say any of them aloud. Uther looks frail and hollow in death, a husk of gray skin stretched over brittle bones.

The day is quiet. The kingdom has known the king is dying for days. Even the dogs have stopped howling in the streets.

"The king is dead," Arthur whispers. He reaches for his father's hand. "Goodbye, Father."

-

Urien's men attack five villages inside Camelot's borders before Uther is cool in his grave.

Arthur is not surprised. He is a young king newly crowned and Camelot has suffered a trying summer on the heels of a harsh winter. He thinks he would almost be disappointed in the courage of his neighbors if they did not move on such a chance. He knows that he will be tested on every border, by every neighboring kingdom. He knows he cannot lose a single battle.

But he did not expect the first threat to come from Urien. From Morgana.

There are whispers on the roads and in the taverns: Urien claims he will conquer Camelot and avenge all those Uther wronged during his reign. They say his beautiful young wife asks it of him. They say Morgana has been plotting against Camelot since before she left. They say they never trusted her, never liked her, never knew why Uther kept her so close. They say King Urien has a sorcerer in his employ giving his men unnatural strength and skill. They say the Druids are helping him.

They say King Urien married a sorceress.

"But not," says Sir Griflet, "where you can hear them, your majesty."

Arthur snorts under his breath. They are riding to meet Urien and his army at the border, but they are riding a day behind most of Arthur's men. Arthur never thought the necessity of his own coronation would make him late to his very first battle as king. But when he sent his men to the border he could hear his father's voice: "It is not the enemy who needs to see you crowned, Arthur, but your own people, in your own home."

Griflet is silent a moment before he asks, "The men want to know what you will do if we find ourselves facing men armed with magic."

"I have fought magic before and won," Arthur says, then he catches himself. "_We_ have fought magic before, and we have been victorious. We will be again."

"Yes, sire."

Arthur squints up at the sky; there are gray clouds creeping over the sun. He says, "And if on our way there we happen to stumble over any witches or warlocks who have escaped beheading, I suppose we can ask them if they'd like to lend a hand."

It takes a heartbeat too long for Griflet to say, "Yes, sire."

He was comfortable joking with the crown prince, but not with the king. Arthur wonders if this is to be his legacy: heir to a king who hated magic beyond all reason, and had no sense of humor.

You will do great things, Merlin used to say, grinning in that foolish, sincere way of his. I know you're destined to be a great king.

But Merlin isn't here, and Arthur is late to his first battle.

He wants to push through the night, but he knows his men need rest if they are to fight at their best. They stop for the night about half a day's ride from the valley where fast-riding messengers report Urien's men are gathering.

When night falls a fog fills the forest where they make camp. At the edge of the ring of firelight, Arthur sees the ghosts from the fen watching and waiting. The men walk by them, around them, through them, and never know they are there. Arthur wonders if his father had ghosts following him about as well, hollow-eyed and cowering, perhaps carrying their own heads away from the executioner's block.

-

It was just after midsummer three years ago when Morgana begged Uther not to send his men to the marshes, and Uther dismissed her as he had dismissed all her recent outbursts. "This is not a matter to concern you," he had said sternly, without looking at her. "Your histrionics have become tiresome."

Arthur had half-expected her to try again with him later that evening, but she retreated to her chambers and did not emerge the following morning when he and the men rode out. Until they reached the marshes beyond the borders of Camelot, a no-man's land of murky water and unstable ground no kingdom claimed, Arthur had thought Morgana was simply being Morgana, overly dramatic and clinging.

But they had not ridden half a mile into the strange, flooded land when a dense fog arose abruptly and surrounded them, and Merlin had murmured, "There's something wrong about this place."

Arthur had replied, "Of course there is. We wouldn't be here otherwise." For months travelers had told of a terrible monster lurking in the depths of the marshes. It drove men mad with magic, they said. It scared them so thoroughly they went out of their minds and attacked one another, drove their horses away, fled into the marshes to drown. Uther would not have cared about men lost outside his borders if it did not disrupt life inside his kingdom so much: the villagers nearest the marshes were abandoning their homes and farms. Some of them straggled to the castle begging for help; others were never seen again.

"No," said Merlin distractedly, squinting into the fog, "that's not what I mean. There's something-"

What he meant, Arthur never discovered. They were interrupted by the scream of a horse behind them, at the end of the line hidden by the fog. A moment later the mist exploded with attackers. There was no monster: there were only men. Well over a hundred men, every one of them armed, every one of them screaming with senseless, berserker rage as they set upon the knights of Camelot. It was more a slaughter than a proper battle; they were surrounded and outnumbered ten to one. With every step Arthur stumbled over a fallen man or horse hidden by the mist and sunk into the mud.

Arthur ran his sword through a bearded man who laughed as blood bubbled from his mouth. Then he spun around, looking for the next foe, and saw Merlin.

Merlin was standing ankle-deep in brown water several feet away. He was covered with mud from head to toe - he had fallen from his horse when the men attacked - and he didn't even have his sword in hand. There was a man charging toward him with an axe raised high. Arthur began to run and opened his mouth to shout a warning, but before he could draw a breath Merlin turned to face the enemy and raised his hand. The man faltered, stumbled, and fled.

Merlin faced Arthur again. "I'm sorry," he said.

His eyes flashed gold, the only spot of color in the murk, and a deafening crack of thunder shook the air. Arthur ducked his head instinctively, and when he looked up again Merlin was collapsed on his side in the shallow water.

And all of the attackers were dead, every last mad, raving man.

Those of Arthur's band who survived were picking themselves up and looking around at the fallen enemy in bewilderment. A cool breeze began to blow, chasing the mist away.

-

Urien does not wait for the King of Camelot to arrive before attacking.

"They came upon us before dawn yesterday, your majesty," Sir Erec tells Arthur.

They are walking through the camp. There are wounded men everywhere and a row of silent, shrouded corpses awaiting burial. A priest stands over the corpses swinging a lantern of pungent incense and chanting quietly. The men who can rise to their feet and bow when their king passes, but few of them speak and fewer meet his eyes.

"Did the patrols not sound the alarm?" Arthur asks. He cannot hide the anger in his voice, and he does not try. They are in Camelot, surrounded by Camelot's hills and Camelot's farms. His men may not be as seasoned as Urien's - Camelot simply hasn't had as many wars in the past twenty years - but they are well-trained and brave. They should not have been caught off their guard and driven back.

"Nobody saw them approach, your majesty," says Erec. "Nobody heard them. They came as silently and were upon us before we knew it. I beg your pardon for speaking frankly, sire, but I believe it is-"

"Sorcery."

Erec nods. "Yes, sire."

"And now?"

"What men we can spare are patrolling the hills. Urien and his men have made camp beside the river, and we can watch them from above. If they begin to move, we ought to see it." Erec pauses and shrugs, always an awkward motion underneath armor. "We ought to have seen them before, sire. It was a grave error."

"You cannot see what is hidden by magic," Arthur tells him, but he is thinking, damn you, Morgana, and your brutish husband and Druid allies, this is hardly a coronation gift befitting a friend.

They have reached the edge of the camp. The valley before them is broad and fertile, green with the flush of midsummer and warm afternoon light. Tendrils of white smoke curl upwards in the distance: the fires of the enemy camp.

Arthur says, "We will rest through the night. Tomorrow-" He stops abruptly, staring.

There is a child standing on the path before them, on the open field where there was nobody a moment ago. Arthur draws his sword instinctively and he hears the singing rasp of Erec doing the same, but the child does not flinch. There are neither trees nor bushes nearby, no place the child could have hidden.

His sword raised, Arthur says, "Who are you?"

The child says, "King Urien will meet with you tomorrow at dawn there, in the center of the valley." The boy turns and points. "He will not attack again until after you have met."

Arthur can feel Erec looking to him for a sign. He lowers his sword but does not sheath it. "Is that so? Are you one of Urien's men, then?"

"I serve the king and his wife." The child looks at him impassively. It is not the look of a child gazing upon a king, but the look of a warrior gazing upon a foe. Although the boy's face is different and he is too young, he reminds Arthur uncannily of the Druid child Mordred.

"I see." Arthur considers for only a moment. "I will hear what King Urien has to say."

The child nods and turns to walk away. Arthur looks at Erec for a moment to say, "Set double patrols for tonight. If he isn't sincere, we don't want to be taken by surprise again."

And when he looks back, the child has vanished.

Erec does not ask the questions Arthur knows he wants to ask. That is another aspect of being king Uther never warned him about: men will hold their tongues even when they believe you are wrong.

They return to the camp. Arthur speaks to as many of his men as he can. He praises those who fought and listens to their warnings about Urien's magical protection. He eats with them by the fire and paces while he talks of their inevitable victory. Arthur knows it is the reinforcements and temporary reprieve more than his presence that puts the men in good spirits, but in good spirits they are when night falls.

Arthur is standing at one end of the camp looking at the points of enemy firelight in the distance and talking to a few of his knights when there is a noisy commotion behind them. His hand goes to the hilt of his sword immediately and his knights draw theirs. But what they see when they stride across the camp is not an enemy scout but an old man. He is stooped and frail and dressed in rags. The beard that falls to his knees is matted with briars, and he is leaning heavily on a knotty walking stick.

"This man," says one of the Arthur's men, eyeing the stranger distastefully, "claims he has information for the king."

"There's a lot of that going around today," says Arthur. "Speak, good man."

The old man looks him up and down doubtfully. "You're the king? Are you even old enough to be without a nursemaid?"

A knight raises his hand to strike the man, but Arthur stops him with a glance. "I am. What do you have to tell me?"

The man looks around at the knights and soldiers, their swords drawn and arrows aimed at his heart, and he scratches his beard thoughtfully. "I know a way into Urien's camp. For you and your men, a way no man will see. You can attack tonight while they sleep."

Arthur feels a chill pass through him. "What way is this?"

The old man does not answer right away. He looks down and taps his walking stick on the ground. "You do not have your father's likeness, your majesty," he says.

Arthur's men murmur and creep closer, and their swords flash in the firelight. He holds a hand up to halt them. "I'm told I favor my mother," he says. "What way do you know to enter Urien's camp?"

"Do you intend to use it?" the man asked in return, his voice challenging.

Arthur feels as much as hears the sharp intake of breath around him, the men waiting for his answer. If he were his father, there wouldn't be any hesitation. The old man would be seized on the spot, shackled and chained and executed at dawn. In a war camp, Uther might not even wait until dawn. If he were his father, nobody, not even the simplest peasant, would be foolish enough to suggest sorcery in the presence of the king.

If he were his father, Urien and Morgana would never have dared to invade Camelot.

Arthur says, "No. Urien has asked for a meeting, and I will grant it. If there is to be a dishonorable leader in this battle, it will not be me."

The old man nods. He looks up at the sky and Arthur follows his gaze. Against the dark tapestry of twilight and emerging stars he sees the silhouette of a bird of prey, darting down to vanish against the shadow of the hills.

When Arthur looks down, the old man's eyes are dancing blue and gold in the firelight, and he is smiling. He says, "That's what I thought you would say."

Arthur remembers waking up as the poison of the Questing Beast left his body. He remembers the feeling of fighting through an endless, impenetrable darkness, his limbs too heavy to lift, his hands too clumsy to use, every voice and memory distant and faded behind the pain. He remembers words dancing like butterflies just out of reach and the cool mockery of a woman's laughter, and struggling like a drowning man toward a light he couldn't see, a surface so distant sunlight was no more than a dream. And he remembers waking up after an eternity with the desperate, childish relief of a man who had been too long without air, without sunlight, without warmth.

"You - you bloody insufferable _idiot_!" Arthur shouts, throwing his arms wide. "My men could have executed you on sight!"

Arthur's men are murmuring and confused, waiting for a signal from him, but the man before him is smiling. He's smiling, and his beard is shrinking, and the lines are falling away from his face, and his back is straightening. Then the glamour is gone and he's standing before Arthur young and tall and smiling that same mad, familiar grin Arthur was certain he would never see again.

"Hello, Arthur," says Merlin. "It's good to see you. Can you ask your men to put their swords away now?"

-

Merlin is both older and younger than Arthur remembers, and he moves now with a fearless confidence that makes Arthur's breath catch.

"They couldn't have, could they," Arthur says. They're in his tent, the only place in camp there is a semblance of privacy; the mud-splattered walls glow with candlelight and dance with shadows every time they move. Side by side, their knees bump together, their shoulders brush, and Arthur tells himself he doesn't thrill with every touch. "What would have happened if they'd tried to execute you on sight?"

Merlin shrugs his thin shoulders and tears a chunk of bread in half. He's already eaten enough to feed two men and shows no sign of stopping. He looks like he hasn't eaten in days or longer. "I would have stopped them," he says. At Arthur's raised eyebrow, he adds, "I would have done it _nicely_, your majesty."

"Oh? Please elaborate."

Merlin glances upward, considering his answer. "I would have turned them into toads rather than worms."

"You're very sure of yourself."

Merlin looks at him steadily and says, "You aren't your father, and Camelot is the better for it."

Arthur shakes his head. "We were attacked within days of my father's death by a former ally who happens to be Morgana's husband. How is that better? How is war better than peace? This year has already been too hard. We have drought and sickness and - and if we fight now, it will only become harder for everyone." He hasn't dared say it aloud to anybody else, not even his closest advisors. But this is Merlin, and Merlin has always had an uncanny ability to force Arthur to admit his worries.

"They're testing you," Merlin says. "They think you're too young and too experienced to rule Camelot."

Annoyed, Arthur rolls his eyes. "I know that."

"They're wrong. You'll pass this test."

Arthur's throat feels tight and dry, but he forces himself to ask lightly, "So you have the gift of foresight now in addition to all the rest?"

"No, that's Morgana's talent, not mine." Merlin sets down the last of the bread and brushes the crumbs from his hands. He leans forward and reaches out, not quite touching Arthur's hand with his own. Arthur remembers Merlin as he first knew him, equal parts insolence and loyalty, awe and naivete, asking Arthur why he had to face an unbeatable opponent, fumbling pieces of armor with clumsy fingers.

Merlin says, "I know they're wrong because I know you. You're the king Camelot is meant to have, even if you haven't quite got the hang of it yet."

People are supposed to change, Arthur thinks. Three years of wandering, three years of separation, three years of wondering if the memories he clung to were real, if Merlin's voice, Merlin's laugh, Merlin's smile were no more than fancies he'd invented like a besotted maiden in a tale.

"And," Merlin goes on after a moment, "I know they're wrong because you have the stronger army. Your men are better trained and better led. The only real advantage Urien has right now is in magic, but I'm more powerful than his sorcerers."

"You really are quite shockingly sure of yourself," Arthur says. He can feel Merlin watching him, the warm, fond gaze on his face, but he doesn't turn to meet it.

Merlin laughs quietly. "Well, I certainly hope so. I didn't spend so many years wandering only to return to you as useless as when I left."

Arthur will ask him later. When they are no longer in a war camp, when they are safely within the walls of Camelot again, he will ask, and he will believe what Merlin decides to tell him. But that is not for tonight. Tonight Merlin is sitting beside him, too warm and solid to be an illusion, wild and fey and familiar. Arthur wants to touch him and he's raising his hand before the thought is fully formed. He traces his fingertips along the line of Merlin's jaw, over the tip of his chin and the curve of his lips still damp from the wine he's just sipped. He brushes Merlin's hair back softly and run his thumb over the shell of his ridiculous ear.

"Three years," Arthur says. "It was three years." He doesn't say, you were never useless.

"For you it was, yes."

Arthur leans forward to kiss him. He catches the corner of Merlin's mouth, the brush of lips soft as a whisper, lingering. They are on a field of war. There is an enemy to meet at dawn. Arthur's men surround the tent, wary of the sorcerer in their midst, cautious of their young king. When Arthur moves away again Merlin's eyes are closed but he is still smiling.

-

The ghosts from the fen are gathered at the edge of the camp before dawn.

"You can see them?" Merlin asks, surprised. He is standing to Arthur's left. He is wearing neither a weapon nor a glamour. He does not even carry a wooden staff, and if they weren't on the brink of battle Arthur might tease him about that.

Arthur looks over the gray, ravaged faces of the wraiths, many of them as familiar to him now as his own knights. "Of course I can."

Merlin purses his lips thoughtfully. "What about you? Can you see them?"

To Arthur's right, Sir Bors stares straight ahead, his eyes fixed on the specks of light from Urien's camp. His expression is impassive. Bors always looks as though anything that is not fighting is a waste of his time, and he has the years and the scars to make the look the truth. That is one reason Arthur chose him to accompany him to meet Urien.

"Answer him," Arthur says, but he is careful to keep his voice even. The other reason he chose Bors to accompany him is that the man has never been unduly hateful towards or afraid of sorcerers, even when it was his sworn duty.

"I can see them, your majesty," Bors says with a curt nod. Arthur is surprised by his answer, then he wonders why. He knows the company of ghosts are not the only secrets the knights of Camelot kept while his father was alive.

"Huh," says Merlin. "Interesting."

Arthur rolls his eyes but does not ask for an explanation. The morning is cool and damp and quiet. Behind him his knights are restless and ready for battle. He has asked for the advice of a chosen few. They have told him it might be a trap. Urien and his sorcerers might murder Arthur the moment they meet at the center of the valley. They might attack as soon as Arthur steps away from the camp. He listened, and he nodded gravely, and he told them he would meet Urien anyway.

"Very well," Arthur says, mostly to himself. "Let's go."

He strides forward through the long, dewy grass, away from the camp and toward the middle of the valley. Bors follows exactly two paces behind, matching Arthur step for step. After a moment Merlin jogs to catch up.

"When we get back to the castle," Merlin begins.

Arthur gives him a sharp, sidelong glance. They are walking into battle against an enemy who may well be stronger than they are, but Merlin is walking along unarmed and carefree, smiling distractedly in the pale dawn light, watching the morning birds dart and sing in the fields around them.

Arthur says, "What?"

"I have something for you," Merlin says. He grins at Arthur. "It's not at the castle, exactly, but it's nearby. I think you'll like it."

"What is it?"

"You'll see." Merlin looks straight ahead then, and he says, "Look."

There are three figures crossing the field to meet them. Arthur recognizes the broad strength of Urien's frame and the determined stride of the knight beside him, but it is Morgana who catches his eye first. She is wearing a white gown that seems to glow and her dark hair falls loosely around her shoulders. Arthur's step does not falter, but his chest feels tight, his breath short. Suddenly he remembers play-fighting with Morgana in the forest near the castle, clashing wooden swords and laughing together while his father's men tore the village apart searching for the wayward prince and ward.

"Don't worry," Merlin says quietly, but not so quietly that Bors can't hear it as well. "She knows what's going to happen."

There is no reason for that to be reassuring, but Arthur feels the knot in his chest loosen. He quickens his pace as the first rays of the morning sun shine over the green summer hills of Camelot.


End file.
